


Процесс REDUX

by tolomer



Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types, Metro Last Light
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolomer/pseuds/tolomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artyom wakes up to find himself bound and gagged; his savior is a heavyset man named Pavel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I've completely redone my old fic from last year, new plot, starting point, etc. so I decided it'd be best to just start completely over with a new post. Hope you enjoy chapter 1!

_ Hey wake up! _

Artyom's eyes  burned  as if under salt water , exacerbated by  the  spread  of the fluorescent light dangling above him.  He shut them  a s tightly as possible  and clenched his jaw in hopes of easing the pain of his splitting headache, though no relief came. He  had to  cough  but all that came were spurts of blood, and  shallow breaths that gave in  heavy gulps , never satisfying the need for air . His  entire torso  ached, and he nearly vomited each time he tried to breathe.  He felt heavy and hot, his clothes sticking to his sweat-drenched skin with all his weight pushing down on his left side.  T he only relief came from the cold concrete floor against his face .  He lay still for  a moment , t rying to get his bearings,  to  remember  what had happened after his excursion to the surface; it was hard to remember with a throbbing headache. He must've been knocked unconscious, he thought, and tried to feel the back of his head. W hen he couldn't, he looked down and saw he was bound with crude twine . H e tried to muster keeping  the dull pain  in his wrists  to a wince, but nearly shouted in  agony  instead, biting his own tongue to keep quiet. His breathing grew heavy again and his stomach finally upheaved its contents onto the floor next to his face. He had to move if he didn't want to be lying in his own bile, or at the very least breathing it in. Shuffling backwards was a difficult task, and pulled at every one of Artyom's muscles-- he thought they'd explode. Finally his back met a wall with a dull and  h ollow  _ cl unk _ .  He managed to pull  himself up a bit using only his hips and beaten legs to rest against the cold metal panel, now sitting upright. His  shoulders  still stung, and  his head pounded .  However n ow maybe  he  could get a view of the room he was in, and try to understand his situation. _ Like a good and proper ranger would _ , he thought.

It  was small and plain . A  concrete  square  with one door out and no window s \-- a single vent, with a weak and pale light pouring through it . Despite the vent the room stunk of feces and urine, and had a more sinister odor hanging about it: rot .  Artyom looked around, vision still blurry and  pained, and caught a glimpse of a corpse in the corner before he had to shut his eyes to stop the headache.  His eyelids still stung.  Fresh blood still sat pooled by the body  he'd seen ,  probably  a recent fatality. 

_Where am I_ ,  he thought.  Who could've captured a Spartan Ranger with such ease, with a sniper above him?

_ Who was that ?  On the floor? _

Artyom opened his eyes again, blinking  frantically  and squinting to try and become accustomed to the lighting.  Lining the drab featureless walls were urinals, fi lthy and in total disrepair. It smelled.  Not only did  the walls lack  the sweeping, rounded arches of the tunnels, and the welcoming yellow lights of VDNKh and D6 , but bizarre symbols he couldn't make out were painted on either opposite wall. I t was probably a  private bathroom,  an old repurposed janitor's closet.  It was only as tall as one and a half  men  and had nothing  else but a locker , presumably empty , and the strange metal wall Artyom had propped himself up on .  Across the room laid the body of  the  young man  Artyom had glimpsed , blood still running from under his shirt. His death by firing  was probably what woke Artyom up so suddenly ; a gunshot he couldn't remember . He tried to steady his breathing again when he heard a faint whisper. Everything he heard was dulled like a radio under a pillow, but it was  human.  He felt as though he were in a dream, hearing voices, seeing things that could never be real. Tied up in a bathroom, ready to face a firing squad, what a tale!

" _Hey! Hey, you! Spartan!_ " The voice came again.

_ _ _Spartan?_   That was him, that's Artyom... who was calling for him? 

_ H-hunter? Khan? _

The call came again and Artyom  lifted his head  with great effort and squinted to the right, opposite the bleeding corpse. He could just make out two others, alive . Both were on their knees . O ne stayed quiet and still ,  though his lips moved as if he spoke. He was praying ? The other faced Artyom ,  his lips also moving,  but  Artyom could n't  make out what he  was saying .  He stared for a moment and coughed once or twice, shaking his head though he immediately regretted it. He  ignored the whispery voice and listlessly watch his own legs sprawled out in front of him, the toes of his boots clicking together every so often . L azily ,  like a child with nothing to do .  It reminded him of his youth, of the days before the excursion to the surface, and the innocence of lying in his father's office with crayons, and old books. He missed Sasha, he missed Zhenya, and now he knew he was going to die. Artyom began to tear up some, losing his will to keep strong in front of these strangers. He was pulled from his fatalistic fantasy by t he voice gr owing  louder , which  once again attracted all of his attention . B ut before he could respond the only door in the room suddenly flung open,  slamming  against the wall with a loud  crack!  It exploded inside Artyom's ears as he bit his tongue again, and tensed the muscles in his calves.  His head felt like it would swell open.

" H e's awake!" one voice came from the doorway.

Artyom  winced with  one eye  open . T he sharp and grisly  silhouettes of the newcomers were unmistakable  by their uniformity :  _Nazis_.  A heavy panic came  over  Artyom that he could feel deep in his stomach as he realized he'd been captured by the Reich, likely never to see the lights of D6 again.  The images of his stepfather filled his mind once again, his life beginning to flash before his eyes. It came slowly at first, like time had stopped only for him; a private show. Then it picked up speed, and each memory rushed past, faster and faster and faster until they began to blend together into a torrent of color and sound, of tastes and smells, and overarching all of it was an overwhelming horn: the sound of a subway train coming into station. His head still hurt.

 As the  nazis  came into the light he could tell they were of lesser status; skinheads in drab, identical beige slacks and jackets. Neither wore a hat.

"Ay Spartan, eyes front. Can't have--"  the officer cut himself off , looking  down at the mess Artyom had left a few minutes prior . T he stench of vomit  was  now overwhelming  and surely didn't aid him in any effort he may have made for mercy .  The officer  scoffed and spat at Artyom's feet before kicking him straight in the ribs; Artyom keeled over onto his side and groaned , coughing up more shallow breaths of blood and bile .

"Disgusting!  _ Blockleiter _ ," he called, " this one vomited on the floor ! "  The second officer tore himself away from the two prisoners Artyom had failed to speak to ,  and came  to join his com rade . His nose crinkled at the smell of aging vomit that mixed with the smell of the recent corpse, and whispered something Artyom could not make out to his subordinate. The underling  nod d ed quickly , his  eyes bouncing up and down. He looked back at Artyom and took his pistol from the holster, using it to motion him to stand. Artyom stood, doing his best to show his open palms as a sign of surrender, hoping for a gentler beating. His life began to flash past him again, but this time, instead of Zhenya's laugh, and his father's lessons, came memories of his old life . C hildhood memories of the  park north of his mother's old apartment. Memories of walks in the evening, and sleeping in his mother's bed when storms  roared and threatened him from above. Memories he'd never given any credence to  came flooding in, and those... those stayed.  He'd thought about his mother for what could collectively take up a month, maybe two, but she'd always been a passing fancy. Something he'd never have back, someone he'd never see again. It was hard, living that way. Zhenya had his entire family, though he could never say he was envious of the dead. But still, it hurt, knowing you were living without a mother. Without someone to hold you as closely as she could. This was hardly a fitting end, he thought, for someone who'd managed to get by regardless. The torrent slowed and let him breathe easy. Finally, Artyom opened his  eyes, pried himself away from sickly nostalgia to meet his death with some shred of honor, when something caught his eye. In the back, to the  right , one of the men he was with  had risen, the  rop e on his wrists free and lying  shredded  on the ground. Artyom's eyes widened and he gulped, focusing again on his captors as not to give his new compatriot away.  He c rept ever closer to the two officers, their attentions focused on their newest catch. The stranger crawled behind the taller of the two,  and with a quick snap of his wrists h is  neck gave way  with a blood-curdling  _ crick _ .

"Wha t the fuck--" it drew the attention of the subordinate, who tore himself from Artyom to  deal with  the problem.  He quickly fired the pistol missing his assailant and striking the other, silent captive in the head. The  other man  delivered a stern kick to his stomach, sending the  nazi  bastard reeling into the back wall, struggling to reload.

"Hey,  you !"  his newest ally  cried out . Artyom did his bes t t o  come to his senses , as  he hea rd a nother  shot.  Artyom bowled over in agony at the sound of the pistol bounced around in his head, and prepared to open his eyes to the worst. Instead,  t he second  nazi  lied dead in the corner, blood spilling from his chest.  Artyom looked up at the new, hopefully friendly face; h e held a bloodied blade out in front of him, sweating as if his opponent still stood before him. H e was a bit heavy-set, and his h at was... goofy, to say the least. He  came to his senses and  began to brush off  Artyom's  shoulders, and even pat his cheeks  to b ring  him back to the  reality , like a mother dusting off her child.

"Hey,  'ey ! You alright there?" he  cooed .  Artyom stood mostly motionless for a moment and blinked the dust and sweat out of his eyes. Before he could answer, the other man pulled out  the  old trench knife  again , similar to the one Artyom had always carried. He  cut Artyom loose and put the knife in his hands;  k- keep it , he said. He didn't sound very confident.

"T-thank you, I--" 

"What's your name, ah?  Mine 's  Pavel ."  H e ignored whatever else Artyom was going to say, and traipsed along the outside edge of the room, tip-toeing around his fallen comrade, to look out the small window in-laid on the maintenance door.  Already  Artyom  could tell he was a bit of an odd one, his demeanor strange. He took such quick action, knowing exactly what to do and when, but the lilt in his voice revealed he was nervous. Artyom watched him go, barely listening to whatever it is he was saying-- something about comradery . And to top it all off, he had that scar.

_Just like Hunter_ ,  he thought. Yes, a lot like Hunter. He thought back to when he first met Hunter, how he made him feel important.  How he made him feel uneasy and unsure. He remembered how embarrassed he was, and how Hunter was the first person to really make him blush and babble like a child. Pavel turned around to face him again, and Artyom's cheeks felt hot.

_Like a real hero, huh_...  Artyom thought. He could admire that get-to-it quality he'd so sought after in Hunter, and even Zhenya. It was inspiring , almost,  if  not a little annoying .

 Pavel  eyed him a moment or two before speaking again, taking in all his features, learning what to do and say with him.

"So, a Spartan, eh? I'm from the R ed Line myself. I know I know, our bosses don't really get along much eh? But hey, hey I say-- I say fuck that, right! Eh? The grunts, stick together. We know what's up, ah? So _chuvak_ , what's your name, I never got it."  He still wanted to know.

"Artyom . "

"Artyom, Artyom, hm. Well Artyom, I vote we get out of this place. It gives me the creeps." Making jokes, even in a time like this... who was this guy? A soldier of the Red Line... Artyom had heard all about the Red Line, but never from anyone he really trusted. Zhenya had been too superstitious, Uncle Sasha never b ro ught  them up,  and the Reds were one subject Khan  knew surprisingly  little about. He'd heard rumors of squabbles with passports at Krasnye Vorota, but otherwise news of the Reds was surprisingly little, lately. There were also rumors that they had completely eliminated the dangers of radiation poisoning, and things like disease,  homelessness and infighting. Of course it was all conjecture, but Artyom couldn't know better.

"Anyway we need to get out of here-- ah, move aside yeah?" Pavel gently nudged Artyom out of the way by the shoulder, to reveal a small lever and electrical panel, next to the metal wall Artyom had been leaning against. It wasn't a wall after all, but  a passageway deeper into the ground. Pavel pushed the lever into position, and with a small LED light came an eerie, and fortunately quiet squeal of metal-on-metal. The doors of the panel shucked back into the walls, to reveal a large drop :  a garbage chute.

"Let's get out of here, and then we'll go our separate ways, yes?"


	2. A Gristly Endeavor

Pavel stepped past Artyom, into the basin of the garbage chute, sitting down and letting himself slide into its depths. Artyom watched, somewhat nervous and somewhat taken aback. Pavel was a strange, but brave man. He’d taken action with Artyom could not, and jumped (literally!) head-first into danger and the unknown. It was almost admirable. Again Artyom’s thoughts fluttered back to Hunter, his entire being but mostly his attitude and fearlessness. As he’d ventured into the maw of the unknown, willing to slay anything in his path, so too did Pavel venture into the maw of, well, garbage. As he was about to step in himself he heard Pavel hit the bottom, followed by a string of expletives. Artyom giggled to himself, which eased the nervous knot in his stomach, before sitting down on the edge of the chute, keeping himself steady on the outer walls and steeling himself. He shoved off, falling for only a moment then sliding the rest of the way through the darkness before landing on his ass with a thud. He rubbed his behind and looked around; Pavel reached out a hand to help him up and smiled before nodding towards the rest of the tunnel.

“This way.”

Artyom dusted himself off and followed, taking care not to step on any of the multitudes of debris, fearing what any of it could be— rusted nails, shattered glass, old pipes. This tunnel was strange. It was round like the tunnels of the actual metro, but only stood about one and a half men high. It could never fit a rail cart, muchless a train. And on top of all of it, it was silent. Not literally, but the tunnel didn’t speak to Artyom as did the train tunnels below, it was simply a lifeless, soulless construct. Its structure was the same, but its underbelly was foreign and grim. Artyom couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been used for before the war. And now it was full of junk. Well it is the other end of a garbage chute, Artyom remembered. Had it always been a garbage chute? Who puts a garbage chute in a bathroom— and who puts a bathroom in a room with grated doors with industrial locks?

“What a strange place…”

“Isn’t it? You can tell they learned from their predecessors— suki, it’s scary.”

Artyom’s eyes popped open in surprise at the fact that he’d said anything out loud; silent or not the tunnel was getting to him it seemed. He was also standing uncomfortably close to Pavel, completely absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Sorry, I—”

“No problem chuvak. Now,” Pavel kneeled in the dirt and pulled Artyom down with him, tugging at his collar and turning him to look out into what appeared to be a giant silo. A hollow in the earth, at one point a multi-floored depot or exchange, it stood stories tall, and Artyom could see the light of the outside world pouring in through holes in the ceiling. No matter how many times he’d ventured up above, views like this always took his breath away. A rare glimpse at what imitated a sky. But lining the walls of the compound, Artyom soon witnessed a far more horrifying sight than he’d ever imagined. Thousands of iron bars caged in hundreds of refugees, civilian prisoners and POWs. Their gaunt faces lined the walls of their cells, filling out the hovels with a painted picture of what could only be described as torture. The nazis showed no remorse for the people they’d caged— the gas that flowed through the pipes in the ceilings wasn’t for warmth or cooking, it was their “contingency plan.” Absolutely sickening, Artyom thought. He was queasy, and almost barreled over, not having experienced any horrors such as this in quite some time. He would’ve, had Pavel not supported his weight, and placed a reassuring palm on the small of his back.

“We need to get across this. You follow my lead, but be careful. Whole thing is one big gas chamber, they see us they gas everybody. That means us too eh? Stick to the shadows on the count of three.”

Artyom blinked and began to panic, staring at Pavel in bewilderment and trying to take in the scenery, his plan and the danger all at once. Count of three? Shadows? What did he mean, what— when he noticed a walkway on chains floating slowly over the complex; it glid across the chasm with a haunting grace, almost mimicking the demons of the surface. Its shadow left a long and opportunistic blind spot in the dirt below. Slowly it moved across the silo in silence, turning and floating, creaking only as the top chain link spun.

“Now!” Pavel hissed. 

He ran forward ahead of Artyom, who clumsily jogged across the gap, breathing with unparalleled ferocity, even more heavily than he had been when in captivity. He just made it to the other side with a jump, where he was greeted with a pat on the back and a wink from his compatriot. A job well done, he’d been told in silence.

“Good, good! Now, tak tak tak tak tak, what do we have here… a grate. Not good. OK, we can’t go this way, hm.” 

Pavel talked to himself quite a bit and got himself lost in thought, looking about the silo trying to come up with a plan. Meanwhile Artyom sat in contemplative silence, watching him move about and mouth things under his breath. It’d been a long time since he’d been in any danger like this, about a year. He was getting rusty, he thought. Life as a Spartan was quieter than he was used to; not as quiet as VDNKh, but less tense. Everyone was armed, and everyone knew each other. It felt secure, which was something to be cherished in the metro. 

“OK. Artyom, give me a boost.” Artyom lifted himself up and bent over Pavel’s legs, cupping his hands to catch him. Pavel stepped into his hands and Artyom did his best to lift him with all his strength before Pavel clumsily stepped onto his shoulders and finally onto the platform overhead. With some effort he released a hinge, sending a rusty old ladder flying down.

“Come on up!” Pavel whispered. 

Artyom grabbed the ladder and ascended rung by rung, taking care to make as little noise as possible. It was hard in steel-toe boots. At the top he had no time to catch his breath as Pavel was already slinking along the platform, dangerously close to one of the guards who’d been distracted by a squabble down below, in a lower cell. As Artyom got closer, Pavel pulled him aside, behind some grating, away from prying eyes.

“OK I’ll sneak around and take out the far guard. You take out this one, kill him if you want it doesn’t matter. Just remember: do it quietly or we’re dead. OK?” 

Artyom nodded in stunned silence, mouth slightly agape. This man was brave, ready to kill to get through, and quick-witted. He had no fear and his shaky and otherwise friendly voice was what, a guise? Or just a genuine hiccup in his otherwise voyeuristic personality. How odd, Artyom thought again. Pavel began to crawl along the outer edge of the silo, behind boxes and cells in the dark as Artyom watched as best he could in the low light. From across the whole space he soon saw a small flash of light from behind a cell— that was his cue. Artyom gulped and readjusted his coat. He tip-toed up behind his assigned guard and took out his knife. Don’t kill him he thought. Don’t. But… well he was a nazi! How could he not…? OK… OK I can do this. Artyom steeled himself once more, to take another life. He stood to full height and with the butt-end of his knife, delivered a deafening whack to the guard’s temple, bringing him towering down onto the platform; Artyom caught him just in time and lowered him silently onto the metal. Dammit he thought, dammit I couldn’t do it. What an idiot. No time to think of it now— across the silo Artyom could make out Pavel’s figure creeping further along, up the scaffolding and across the tops of the holding cells.

“Hey!” a charred and broken voice called. Artyom turned around, greeted by an older woman in a cell behind him. Her eyes were glossed over and her hands shook with every breath she took.

“There’s a ladder to your left, you can take it to your friend,” she coughed out.

Artyom nodded and began to fiddle with the ladder’s lock when she tugged on his jacket to get his attention again.

“Please release us sir! At the top— the way you’re going— there’s a switch, in the guard room. It will open the cages without releasing the gas. Please! Please!” she begged, her glossed eyes beginning to tear up; her face burned bright red. Artyom nodded, assuring her he would fulfill the task at hand.

“Thank you! Thank you, please!”

He ascended the ladder, reaching the top in no time now that no guard was posted above him. He moved across another corridor, atop the cells as Pavel had done. From an even higher position Pavel called down, crouched above a set of hermetic doors.

“You made it! Good, good. Now, you need to press the button on that intercom next to you— over there.” he motioned wildly at a PA system mounted on the opposite wall, to Artyom’s right. Artyom pressed it and a loud robotic buzzing came on for a second or two, before fading away. An elevator could be heard through the doors and Artyom began to panic.

“Hide!” Pavel called, this time above a hiss. Artyom bolted past the sealed elevator doors, ducking in between two of the cages on the far wall. A couple of times he’d lost his footing on the grated floors, losing his breath as well when he’d looked down. The two of them were so high up he’d certainly die should he fall. As he fit himself snugly in between the cells, the doors finally opened with a hiss, and out traipsed a man who looked like a new recruit; he didn’t wear the uniform Artyom’s captors had adorned, instead sporting a quilted jacket and a pair of cargo pants and work boots. He took each step slowly and methodically out into the open, where no one stood to greet him.

“Hello? Who pressed this?” he called, confused and irritated.

“Hey,” a man in the cell next to Artyom whispered. “Hey!”

“Hush!” Artyom responded.

The man insisted, continuing to call for him— after a moment he grabbed Artyom by the hair, loosely as not to hurt him, but enough to pull his head back some.

“Hey!”

Another man to the left joined him, grabbing Artyom’s sleeve and yanking his arm through the bars.

“Hey!” they called again.

“Let us out! You have to get us out!” soon more and more men had gotten a hold of some part of Artyom, and a feeling of claustrophobia set in, hands touching his face and body in a flurry of hot, red flesh.

“I will! I will!” he called back, his voice cracking and faltering. He did his best to hiss his replies, to keep quiet while the guard inspected the empty platform.

“Hey!” but this time it was the guard. “Hey, who is there?” he turned towards Artyom, still being tugged around by the prisoners. The guard’s light flashed to his position, illuminating his entire face, blinding him as he flailed for freedom.

“Who the fuck are you?” he shouted, adjusting his gun from his chest to a firing position.

Once again Artyom prepared for death, the prisoners still not letting go of his clothes and hair.


End file.
